


I Believe

by my_angry_angel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:23:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_angry_angel/pseuds/my_angry_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a mysterious note taped to his door. Little does he know the author-Sherlock-is watching him from right across the street</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe

The morning sky was overcast as John stepped outside, but it wasn’t raining. Hoping it would stay that way, the doctor started limping down the street. In the year since Sherlock’s death, Watson’s leg had started hurting again, but he was reluctant to use his cane. He felt like doing so would tarnish the memory of his friend. He’d gone to see his psychiatrist, who told him once again that the limp was still psychosomatic, but he didn’t believe her. If anything, what he had was the opposite. Psychosomatic health. He hadn’t heard any stories of it happening before, so he wasn’t sure if that was even possible. Before he made it to the corner, a fat raindrop splattered down on his head. With a sigh, John turned around and made his way back to the flat to get his umbrella. 

He’d moved back to Baker Street just a couple weeks before. After Sherlock’s death, the house was too full of memories for him to live there, but he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else moving in. He couldn’t ask Mrs. Hudson to give up the income from the flat and he couldn’t afford to pay the rent on two places, so he’d moved in with Harry. He’d done his best to ignore his sister’s drinking, but things had come to a head and she’d asked him (not so politely) to move out. Thus homeless, he’d gone back to Baker Street and found the flat almost exactly as he’d left it. Mrs. Hudson had cleaned up a little--organized some things and gotten rid of the perishables--but most things were right where they’d been when Lestrade showed up to arrest Sherlock. 

When he got to the door, he found a note taped to it. He almost disregarded it as a collections notice of some sort, but something made him unfold the paper and read it. The words were printed in large, capital letters: I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES. John dropped the paper, his fingers suddenly numb, and looked up and down the street. He hadn’t been gone five minutes, so whoever posted the note had to be nearby. He didn’t see anybody he recognized, but that meant little. The author could be anybody. A member of the homeless network, or even a random person who hadn’t believed what the papers had written about Sherlock.

With a final glance around the street, John gave up and went inside to get his umbrella. Unfortunately, it was stored in the same closet as his cane, and his leg was already aching fiercely. He didn’t think he could make it through the day without his cane. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered as he pulled it out of the closet.  
Feeling terrible, John left the flat, stopping to pick up the note, and started back toward the hospital, hurrying a little to make up for his trip back home.

#

Sherlock had been waiting across the street since six that morning, disguised of course. His hair was covered by an oversized cap, and his lean frame was padded by several layers of clothing. Thankfully, it was a chilly day, so the layers weren’t unbearable.

It had taken him a while to track John down, simply because the man hadn’t left any sort of trail. He finally figured out that the doctor was at Harry’s about two days before he moved out, and of course, nobody could tell him where John had gone. But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Watson had gone back to Baker Street. So he’d sat outside the flat all day every day for two weeks, waiting for both John and Mrs. Hudson to leave. He knew it would happen eventually; he just had to be patient.

His opportunity finally came that cold, windy day. Mrs. Hudson had left an hour before John, and still hadn’t been back. Waiting for the doctor to leave had been torture. He was convinced that the landlady would return before her tenant left, and he would have to continue the vigil outside.

When John finally stepped outside, Sherlock nearly jumped with joy, despite the heartache of seeing his friend limping again. His moment had finally come. As soon as the doctor was out of sight, Sherlock darted across the street and taped the note to the door. Molly had helped him with the handwriting, made him write it over and over until no trace of personality remained in the lettering. It was for the best. Moriarty might be gone, but his men were still out there, and even a note could be enough for them to go after the people Holmes cared about. Hopefully John would be smart enough to figure out who had written the note.

Sherlock turned and started away, but froze when he saw John coming back. He’d only been gone a couple minutes, so why was he coming back already? The former consulting detective looked around for a moment, then hurried across the street, grateful there wasn’t much traffic at the early hour. He settled against the building across the street, right next to a set of stairs, and watched John discover the note.

The doctor’s reaction was almost painfully predictable, but Sherlock wouldn’t have given up seeing it for the world. He hated seeing the person he cared for the most suffer so much, but he knew John’s life would be forfeit if Sherlock revealed himself. So as much as it pained him to stay hidden, he did. When John went inside, the former consulting detective knew he had the chance to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not without seeing his friend one more time.

He waited until John came out, nearly tearing up at the sight of the cane. That, more than anything else, spoke volumes about how much the doctor was suffering. He watched the other man walk down the street, grateful for his hat’s broad brim.

“I’ll be back, John,” he whispered, his words whipped away by the wind. “Soon.”

The next day, Sherlock went back to the flat to watch John, then the next day. He told himself he just had to make sure Moriarty’s henchmen hadn’t made a move. Though John’s limp didn’t improve, some days he went without his cane, so Sherlock liked to believe that he’d made a difference with his note.


End file.
